“Not even when you looked right at her and shot her in the face. You’re not sorry about that are you?”

“I needed her car.”

“Running from the police.”

“Hey, it’s not like I banged the bitch first, pops. She shouldn’t have been there.”

“But she was. And you got away from the cops. You and your two friends.”

“Yeah okay. So she was there. Thank you Miss Bitch. Thank you.”

“It’s time to teach you a lesson.”

“You trying to scare me?”

“Yes. I want you scared.”

“Nothing scares me. See that’s the difference. You kind of people scared all the time. Running around doing nothing but your boring shit. Running away from the truth. Wishing everything is okay. But us real people, the ones that feel the hurt, see the pain — we out here. We don’t know scared. We make our own truths. So I ain’t scared of nothing. Not scared of you. Least of all scared of no bullet.”

“Then why don’t you run? Or why don’t you come at me?”

“Put the Glock down. Find out.”

“Have you ever been shot before?”

“What is with you old man? You want to talk? Is that what you want to do all day? Or do you want to put down that gun and settle your beef with me like a man.”

“You’re not yet a man. I wish you were. It would make this easier. More meaningful.”

“Fuck you.”

“The others. Your friends. They told me where to find you.”

“That’s bullshit right there.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“So? You think that’s supposed to mean something? You talking like you know my boys? You don’t know about me or them. They family, old fuck. You ain’t shit.”

“They’re dead now anyway.”

“Don’t fuck with me old man.”

“Derrick Morgan and Trevor Wayne, the other two that were with you when you robbed the Quik-Mart that day. It’s funny, I expected you to live in a cockroach-infested hole, but your house is actually very nice. Clean. Nice area too. — NO YOU DON’T!”

“FUCK!”

“See? I’m a pretty good shot. I’ve had lots of time to practice. I’d put a hand over that left ear to stop the bleeding. You won’t be able to hear out that ear anymore. Now get up. You can’t run away.”

“My ear motherfucker!”

“Pain? I know. I know pain. I shot myself in the head after Bev’s funeral, but I didn’t die. Still get headaches. Get up I said. You try for the door again then I shoot off your balls next.”

“Don’t shoot me man.”

“Heh. I already did.”

“I just needed the car man. That’s all. She wouldn’t get out. But I just needed the car. I had to.”

“Beverly.”

“Huh?”

“That was her name. Beverly Rose Harper.”

“Shit man, come on. I just needed the car.”

“Grandmother. Kindergarten teacher. Wife.”

“It was a long time ago man.”

“It was eleven months ago. I spent six of those months recuperating, learning to talk and walk and pee and poop again. Best of all, learning to shoot again. Here. Tell me how this one feels.”

“No!”

“Sounds like it didn’t hurt bad enough. Not enough for you? How’s this one feel then?”

“NO! Please. No more. No more…”

“Do your legs hurt now?”

“Please! PLEASE!”

“Your pictures on the wall. That one over there. The perfect white family. A Republican’s wet dream shot. Maybe your parents even helped you with that Mercedes out front. I’m sure Mommy, Daddy, and your little sister wouldn’t appreciate knowing you killed a helpless woman. Stole her car. A dusty Buick not even worth the tailpipe on that Merc you have outside.”

“Please don’t. No more.”

“Ronald and Mary Austen. And little Phyllis. Oh come on, don’t look at me like that. I had months to brood over you Andrew. Or Double-A as you’re called. That’s a stupid name, by the way. You couldn’t come up with something better?”

“Don’t. Don’t hurt them.”

“So you DO have morals. I expected you to beg for your own life, but not for your actual family.”

“I wasn’t the one that pulled the trigger.”

“No need for all that. Derrick the Dinky. T-Ballz. They already did the finger-pointing game. It doesn’t matter. You just happened to be last on my list.”

“I swear it man. I swear it wasn’t me that shot her.”

“So I asked you earlier but you never answered. I’m just curious. Your gang. Your swagger. How did you get this way?”

“….”

“I didn’t hear? I just want to understand about the pain. The suffering of real people.”

“….”

“See that’s just it. You aren’t real. No more real than the image you conjured up for yourself. You marvel over the dangerous animal of street-life. Isn’t that it? You romanticize it.”

“My legs, man. It hurts.”

“It’s not the same thing Andrew. This isn’t South Central. This isn’t even LA. Your life is a lie. I’ll show you what real is.”

“Please… man. Please.”

“Don’t move your head or my gun will go off.”

“I can’t breathe. Can’t breathe.”

“That’s why they call it a choke hold.”

“Stop. Please, please, please, please… please… ple….”

“Aw. Actually, I have to say. You look like a little boy taking a nap. You even snore like one. I don’t know if I should wait till you wake up or shoot you now. I wonder if sleeping people even feel gunshots. Let’s see… Nope. Still asleep. Your shins are going to hurt really bad though when you wake up. Your legs look a mess. Must be hell on whatever you’re dreaming right now. I remember thinking I was stabbed once while I was dreaming. Woke up with the worst stomach ache I ever had. I think I’ll just take a seat over there. Do you mind? Nice neighborhood like this, someone’s bound to call the police by now. You still in there, Andrew? I think so. Somewhere deep inside your head there’s a part that still listening to me. How about this? I’ll tell you all about my Bev. The day we first met. The good stuff. Hey maybe if I get done gabbin’ before the cops get here, I’ll give you a chance. Let you heal. Grow a few years and come back at me. I want it to take time. I want it to go as long as it possibly can. You staying alive. You know what I’m hoping? I hope you get that monogamous inkling and try to marry some rich whore your daddy would approve of after he helps reform you back into society. I show up on your wedding day. Watch you limp about if your legs do heal right. I show up. Cause discordance. I leave. You then have kids later on. I show up on their birthdays. Scare the bastards. I leave. Eventually, I’ll have to stop the madness the older I get. Put an end to everything and everyone. You, your whore, your kids. But it sounds like a lot of fun coming your way. Okay, so how do I start? Oh yeah. Let me tell you about my Bev. Of all places, I met the love of my life in Bowling Green at a post office. I was looking for a pen because I forgot to write down the zip code to my uncle Ned’s place on the package I was sending out. I was supposed to ship him this ugly candle-thingy my mom went through the trouble of buying at Woolworth’s. This was – what — about thirty years ago. Anyway there she was… God she was so beautiful and it’s like she didn’t even need me to say anything but had her hand out with this Bic knowing that’s exactly what I needed. Smiling so warm and sweet. So I took the pen and said my name was Ned. Only it wasn’t Ned because my name is Robert. It was my uncle, the guy I was shipping that God-awful box to. That was his name.